


Patch Job

by NIiv



Category: City of Blank (Webcomic)
Genre: Alcohols, Bandages, Commentary welcomed, Flashbacks, Gen, Halloween Costumes, Hurt/Comfort, I Tried, I'm ✨emotional✨, It got messy, Jer/Claude if you Squint, Possible Pre-Canon Divergence, Sorry Not Sorry, Wounds, breakdowns, cracks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:47:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27167474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NIiv/pseuds/NIiv
Summary: Claude having a crisis over Jericho’s Halloween outfit choice.
Kudos: 14





	Patch Job

**Author's Note:**

> Posting before Oct.31  
> The Halloween part innit felt more like a prop than anything

Nothing beats worry like stumbling upon your best friend's mangled body.

Seriously, he was only separated from them for like two seconds then Jericho managed to come back into his sight laying limp in a pool of ashes and rubbles mixed in his own blood, a good half of his body torn with burnt wounds and his right arm missing. It was impressive, really. A whole arm. _How_ in the bloody hell's name did that ** **idiot**** manage to lose a whole arm in that short span of time where he’s away? And in return also gaining a severe injury that doesn’t look at all survivable. That’s gotta be a new record. Claude stared at the body in mild amazement and almost wanted to laugh. How'd Jericho get by the days before Claude came into his life was beyond him.

Instead he gagged on his own breath as the initial shock from the sight faded just enough for the revolting smell of burnt flesh and blood to hit his senses, making his stomach churn and his eyes water. He threw himself at the body almost instinctively, and before he knew it, tears were streaming down his cheeks as he scrambled forward crying for his name.

 _Get him some help._ That was Claude's first thought then. _Where the fuck is Mikiah,_ came second.

Just his luck that they were so deep in the jungle, the camp was at least half an hour’s drive away, not to mention the terrain is already difficult to trudge through even on foot. Kneeling on the ground next to Jericho’s motionless form, Claude bit down on his lips hard enough to draw blood as he struggled to stay calm and started rummaging through his backpack, which he had the sense to fill with essentials _unlike a certain someone._

Against his better judgment, he didn’t check Jericho’s pulse. Didn’t want to. Couldn’t be bothered to.

“Fuck, ” He cursed under his breath as he tried to turn on radio, rip open the first-aid kit and uncap the water can all at once before essentially dropping everything in a frenzy. This isn’t good. _This isn’t good._ Goddamn it, he should’ve known better than to let them out of his sight! If only he’d refused, if Mikiah hadn’t insisted to have them go ahead... and weren’t they suppose to be together so _where the FUCK is Mikiah_ ** _ **now?!**_**

Blood. There was just so much blood, still oozing out of the fabric, obscuring his already blurred vision as well as his own tears, warm against his skin and smearing all over his hands as he carefully cut open and peeled away the tattered clothing, swearing up a storm as the scissor yet again slipped from his violently trembling fingers. Fully exposing the wound was a whole other experience on its own. The flesh beneath was raw, torn, gaping, ruined, made up of blotched colors ranging from yellow to violet to black, all so heavily tinted in a thick red hue. Claude felt dizzy.

Throwing his mask aside so as to not have his vision clouded by the damp lenses, he blinked, and for a moment he just stared. Jericho didn’t look like he’s even breathing. Claude held out the water can and tilted the nozzle into his cracked lips anyway, lifting his head for a little to make it go down (it didn't) all the while watching out not to jab into the hideous blast wound taking up half Jericho’s face. “You’ll be fine.” Claude said aloud, unsure if he even actually made any sound at all because of how much his head was pounding.

Fuck. His eyes were watering again.

He’d used up all the water left to wash away the sand and dirt over the wound, and started ripping his own shirt off into stripes for some somewhat clean clothing because it doesn’t exactly take a genius to deduce that the one roll of bandages from the flimsy first-aid kit ain’t gonna be _enough._ But _of course_ it wasn’t enough. No way on _Earth_ would he had ever prepared enough. He shouldn’t even have to _deal with this shit in the first place._

It was on the seventh or so wrap of bandages around Jericho’s torso then when whatever that’s been holding Claude’s nerves together decided to crash -- perhaps even more than it already had. One of Claude’s hand automatically flew to his mouth as he very nearly threw up right then and there, trying his absolute hardest to swallow his own vomits back down (probably not the best way to deal with this but he could care less)and fought back the tears that made his eyes stung. Still he soon began to choke and sniffle, almost going into a full-on sobbing fit as the tears broke out and he struggled to even breathe. Jericho was _there,_ on the ground just in front of him, his ugly, massive, _gaping_ wound that covered the entirety of his side glared from under the layers of already-stained bandages, his _lifeless_ form barely recognizable from the obnoxious idiot Claude grew to love and all because he’d lost track of them for _six_ _seconds_ andhe really needed to patch him up a-and his finger _s were trembling so much_ too much _and Fucking Mikiah was still nowhere in sight and the place was in_ ruins _and him he was still bleed_ ** _ **ing**_** _and he still_ _ha_ ** _ **dn’t made a sound**_** _and all_ _t_ ** _ **he ashes and blood and the smell of burnt flesh and --**_**

_“ Don’t die. ”_

_Please._

* * *

_“So, what’d ya say?” Jericho grinned widely, the corners of his mouth lifting especially high on the blanked side, peeking out from just under the sloppily wrapped white bands of fabric. Said thing being his holiday costume. Claude doesn’t exactly get the hype. But he’ll go along with it as long as it keeps Jericho in a good enough mood that he wouldn’t wander out again in his current state._

_“Suits you,” He_ _responded halfheartedly_ _._ _Claude wasn_ _’_ _t sure if it did_ _. The bandages wrapping up all of his torso were slapped on_ haphazardly _like a_ panicky _newbie medic who’d only faced a_ severe injury _for the first time and only knew to_ cover up as much as possible, _only the_ mess _seemed more_ deliberate, _tugged loose in someplace and_ revealing skin _and blank spaces alike_ underneath, _even a few_ rips _here and there. The cargo pants were also_ patched, _creating an_ _overall_ _pretty_ _ragged look. Jericho said it’s a mummy. Claude was having a hard time thinking of any mummy that wears a leather jacket on top of all that, surprising Jericho hadn’t already passed out from how hot that layers upon layers of clothing looked._

 _Except that he had, passed out and unconscious on the ground, and without his leather jacket because Claude cut the thing apart himself. And underneath the gaps of those bandages were not blank space but a churning red, slowly seeping_ _away_ _no matter how desperately he wanted to conceal it._

_And suddenly it lit up into dancing flames. Burning bright under his hands and against the dark sky as it consumed everything in sight._

Claude had to stuff a fist into his mouth to stifle the frustrated scream escaping his throat as he for like the sixth time tried and failed to tamp down the vivid illusions, curled up tighter in the couch that he’d collapsed on earlier, not that anyone would hear him in his own apartment. It was ridiculous. This was ridiculous. When had he become so...sensitive, for lack of a better word? It’s been months since it happened, and just seeing Jericho in those stupid _bandages_ was enough to get him hyperventilating, his ears ringing and his vision tunneled. It wasn’t even all that similar a scenario, for Blan’s sake, he could pick out a hundred differences just on the visual alone. _So why the hell’d he get like this?_

He’d excused himself earlier that day under Jericho’s inquiring gaze at his sudden reticent, only catching a “see ya at the club” thrown after his hasty steps leaving the safe-house. He barely managed to push open the door to his apartment before overcame by the wave of nausea and threw up in the kitchen sink. And now here he is lying on the couch hugging a cushion, drenched in cold sweat and panting like a wet dog.

Pathetic.

A glance at the clock told him that he ought to start putting himself together by now. When was the last time he even had to deal with one of these fits? How’s he gonna show up to tonight’s party this way? _Or I could just bail out,_ he closed his eyes, _never liked th_ _ose pointless gatherings_ _anyway._

But tempting as it might be, hiding here really wasn’t an option. In the end he dragged himself up, took a deep breath, and began to dig through the cupboards in the hopes that he might have a box of anxiety pills stashed somewhere.

* * *

Having hoped for alternate answers wouldn’t make them come forth. Some of the handbooks were missing. So was Mikiah. And what little could be found from the ruins were all indicators (he’d glared at them like it’s somehow their fault). With a few others at the camp confirming that yes, Mikiah did come back before them, packed his stuff and left in a hurry. It doesn’t _get_ much clearer than that.

Jericho made it. Which at least came as a huge relief to him. Though his wound was slowly healing back with blank space, a fact Claude couldn’t risk exposing. So he hid him away and had the people at the camp believing that their other company was dead, killed in an explosion set off by his own colleague so as to steal all his research, which wasn’t all that far off from the truth anyway.

He'd chased down Mikiah demanding explanations, only ended up watching wordlessly as the small house that was Mikiah’s home burn to the ground as Mikiah’s wounded form staggering towards him pleading for help. The scorching flames flailed high into the dead of night. Not much about the sight could be said was familiar to him. Not exactly. But something about the burns, the falling ashes, glances of the blood spilling out from beneath Mikiah’s clothes and staining his fingers.

He'd turned and ran and hadn’t look back.

* * *

The thoughts of Mikiah seemed to sting a little less these days, however inapparent the change might be, but still unbearable.

Claude didn’t know what to make of his death. It really shouldn’t come as a surprise to him when he’d saw it on the news. He left Mikiah there to die and he died, that’s that. But it was. And so was everything else. It was almost like a sick joke everyone but him knows the context of. Or a twisted dream where everything was so distinct yet so heavily fogged by the irreality of it. Maybe some part of him was still expecting to simply wake up from all of it someday.

The cool touch of running water helped grounding him in the present, so he allowed himself to linger under the showerhead for just a little longer.

Finally he picked up the towel, wiping himself dry as he stepped out into the living room. There he found sitting on the table was his suit, his mask, some neatly stacked paper, a glass of water.

And...

A bottle of wine.

Surprisingly, out of the three of them Mikiah is _(was)_ the only one who actually ha _d_ any tolerance for alcohol (though it wasn’t much either). Claude himself had always been the epitome of a light-weight and Jericho just loses it _waaayy_ too easily (so much so that he was outright banned from any kind of liquor, and would actually be the only one left sober at a party - which could also be surprising).

He derailed that train of thought before it could go any further than that. The point is, while he had his share of encounters with alcohols and frankly none of them had been very pleasant, they certainly proved to be an effective distraction when needed.

Claude shut his eyes tight.

Fuck this, he decided later as he uncorked the bottle.

* * *

“But Mister Kastner, sir, you sure - ”

“Hand me ‘nother glass in 10 seconds or I punch your teeths’ out.” Claude snapped, leaving no room for argument despite his slurred words and red cheeks. The bartender raised a brow at him but nonetheless complied. Tsk. Damned twats. He must’ve really looked like a wasted wreck if it seemed concerning enough for even the bartender to say something about it, huh?

On top of that half a bottle of wine he’d dunked himself in at home, another six glasses of various drinks he didn’t care to name later and he was feeling like he could just pass out on the club counter. In hindsight maybe kept on drinking after he’d already been out of it wasn’t such a good idea (scratch that, definitely not a good idea), but at that moment he’d really rather just drink himself silly than to think about... whatever that was that got him drinking in the first place (can’t remember, so hey at least he know it’s working). The place was crowded with people in costumes, lighting reflecting off every surfaces making everything else nothing more than a blur of colors, and the music was just loud enough to drown out all his thoughts (might as well) without it hurting his head.

Claude snickered quietly as the lady Jericho attempted to hit on right after stepping through the entrance flipped him off without so much a glance. Even with all the people dressing up as crooks and monsters Jericho’s blank space still had him standing out like a sore thumb. That and he’s stupidly tall. Claude was sure he’d hit the low-hanging ceiling of the entrance when he spotted Claude at the counter and gave him a chipper wave.

...Gosh, was that a hook hand? Please tell him it wasn’t a hook hand.

Claude groaned aloud as Jericho walked closer. It totally _was._ Somehow that punk’d managed to morph his reddish blank space of a right-hand into a massive twin hook _(ridiculous)_ to go with his newly-changed getup. He wore a plain black eye patch on his lopsided grin sharpened by a touch of eyeliner over his lashes, an old-fashioned white blouse with sleeves rolled up to the elbow and maroon waistcoat with gold decals, a buckled belt tied over his black leather trousers and finally a pair of (still spiked) knee-high pirate boots.

It was... slightly different from what Claude was used to, but fuck if it didn’t look good on him (aside from that hook hand, screw that hook hand).

He thought hard of what to say. “Where’d all the bandages go?” was all he managed.

“Thought you didn’t like it,” Jericho said as he invited himself over to sit down at the counter next to Claude, sounding almost bored.

“I said that?” Claude purposefully turned his eyes away, gaze catching the lights glinting off his glass instead. They looked pretty.

“Written all over your face.” Jericho shrugged before eyeing him up and down. “Gets too stuffy in it anyways, so ain’t really a loss. Hey, you, bring another drink! Here.”

“Sure thing, boss!” The bartender shouted back cheerfully. Claude gave him a shrill look. He must’ve noticed, sparing a glance between them thoughtfully before suddenly speaking up.

“Wasn’t this suppose to be the halloween costume party, boss?” The bartender quipped casually, pretending to ignore Claude’s death glare. “Mister Kastner here doesn’t seem to have changed a whole lot.”

“He showed up without dressing to the nines, I’d say that’s spooky enough.” Jericho replied, a smirk evident in his voice as a few others around the counter laughed at that joke in his expanse. Indignant as Claude was he couldn’t really argue with that. Though he was fairly sure he didn’t start off this way. He’d lost his jacket somewhere in the past hour and the tie too (or did he never even had it on?), the collar of his shirt ruffled, and his signature mask discarded aside after the beak was proven too troublesome to drink with (seriously). He felt his face burn, and opted to bury it in his arms as he let out a small muffled groan.

“I thought you don’ drink?” He mumbled drowsily, lifting his head a little to growl as Jericho caught the glass the bartender slid across the counter with his hook hand _(hook hand)_ in a light _clink._

“I don’t.” Jericho’s lips quirked up in a smile that screamed trouble. “It’s for you.”

Claude blinked before turning to stare blankly at his own glass on the counter that he’d emptied earlier without knowing. _Of course._ Jericho wouldn’t for the life of him pass up an opportunity like this to douse him in more alcohol. This seemed all _too_ familiar. Next thing he knows he’s gonna have pie shoved in his face because of his horribly off-key singing and trip into a springwell trying to high-five the wall (and he thought his reputation couldn’t possibly get even _more_ ruined).

 _Do I even have a choice,_ he glared at the glass Jericho handed him (and his stupid hook hand) with despair. To him he might as well just been handed a cupful of rat poison.

On that thought he grabbed the glass and downed it with all his heart, only stopping halfway as the burn of the liquor got him coughing slightly.

Jericho watched him amusedly for a short moment before seeming to notice something and put up a slight frown. “Yo!” he waved his hand (the normal one, thank god) at the bartender. “How many glass had he had again?” The bartender shrugged and signaled a number. At that Jericho’s eye widened, letting out a whistle as he stared down at Claude with mild amazement. “No wonder it’s gotten so quiet. _Damn._ How are you even still alive?”

“Mhm.” was his response as he proceeded to demolish the whole glass. Jericho didn’t stop him. Though he kinda looked like he wanted to say something.

 _Something_ was off then, he could tell but just what exactly, he couldn’t seem to get a grip on. Something was missing (something... someone..?). It wasn’t supposed to be like this (not that he knew what "this" even is), none of it. It just wasn't right. He looked over to Jericho and frowned, thinking hard to try and determine when and why’d his idiot friend grown to need an eye patch and painted half of his face red (and was that a fucking hook hand) before deciding he was too dizzied to think straight (ha) and just settled for a staring contest with Jericho thoughtfully scrutinizing his face.

Something flashed across Jericho’s feature. Claude didn’t get the chance to process it before Jericho spoke up and his thoughts were disrupted again.

“Well, you aren’t much fun this way are you,” Jericho clicked his tongue and patted him firmly on the back (nearly had him fell off of his stool), shaking his head in something almost akin to disappointment. Claude hummed contentedly and tilted his head to watch as Jericho stood up, saying something Claude couldn’t make out to the bartender before turning on his heels and disappearing into the crowd.

Claude lowered his eyes, resting his head in his arms and lay still on the counter. In the end he still wasn’t able to figure out what the swirling shadows behind his eyes were supposed to be, dispassiating too fast for him to grasp, escaping through his fingers and leaving a taste stale and bitter in their wake. But he hadn’t need to. The lights still churned, rippled and swayed. The glass was still clutched in his hand as warmth arose in his chest, flooding from the clouded memories of a temporarily-forgotten past.

He snuck a final glance at the crowd before slipping into blissful unconsciousness. As expected his vision was dampened by the too-colourful lights and really couldn’t make out much of anything. But it didn’t matter.

He was just glad that Jericho was still there, at least.


End file.
